Men confuse the blank stare
of non-comprehension
or simple resignation
with innocence

Gaugin’s gilt-framed quarry
paraded the village in a new sarong
When she visited to see her portrait
She left it in a silken pile on the floor

Looking up at from under his white back
she admired her own beauty
and smiled

I am game, perhaps.
but my game is different.

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

What better way to spend a rainy day
than by tying nets of words for you

Does it rain there
in deluge or sprinkle?
Are your clouds singular
or non-existent?
Does your coat of rain
make you impermeable
or can you feel
the drops
from my clouds?

Yours have found me
completely permeable
I am soaked
to the soul

Another sweet one, Harry. Maybe it's just me (the stalked, in theory at least) but you do well on this sort of thing. I will respond to this a bit later, right now I have a cloud over my head that is reminiscent of Schleprock on the Flintstones. I need to wait for it to clear a bit.

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

The wild race of my pulse,
reflexes
to endorphins released in blood
after stealth incursions
manifested in inflammation, marks
aches and pains
Vital signs

So yes, something vital is missing.

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

The wild race of my pulse,
reflexes
to endorphins released in blood
after stealth incursions
manifested in inflammation, marks
aches and pains
Vital signs

So yes, something vital is missing.

I lay awake in sullen Berlin
oppressed beneath the ceiling’s pressing weight
my faults, a totalling of accounts
passively recorded and weighed against me
like the heart that beats too often
it's merely an accusation
but the facts require this as evidence
before passing quickly onto the liver

a fly circles its irritation
I'm too cold for its attraction
meat without the blood
the brain without the heart
all meaning and little purpose
my bladder swells like a bag of insults I refuse to empty
I indolently endure my discomfort
and consider my plight
self fulfilling the multiplication
of my insignificance
the apartment is quiet
there have been no visitors

within my chest
a hole has opened up
a vacuum swelling like a balloon
eating me from inside out
something vital within me has been devoured
consumed in a conversation
I empathise with those in a similar plight
but like Dracula I’m compelled by my condition
to satisfy my appetite

The Compleat AnglerGod never did make a more calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling.
—Isaak Walton

I could lay a jawed trap
deep in dark chocolate reeds,
drop a line in some red wine’s stream,

or I could simply talk,
and with calm tongue set the hook
that hauls you up by the lips

into the prow of my boat,
where you will flop and gasp and quiver
even while I am the one who dies.

Really, really beautiful. And I am most grateful you did not use a whaling reference

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Really, really beautiful. And I am most grateful you did not use a whaling reference

I'm more of a trout fisherman, myself:

The Song of Wandering Aengus William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

__________________The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.
—Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Well, I'm not there yet. Last time I was there Lit was blocked, and I won't have much time to write anyway - at least not poetry.

How have I been? A roller coaster, but one with more low dips than highs.
What happened, did your computer get swept away by Sandy?

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

Wry grin, huffing resignation,
chase continues no hesitation.
Except:
for a drink or two, a cheery fire
ere I retire to dream of you.

Predawn:
Cold, dark, shivering
Pack camp and move quickly.
Fair game sleeps in the sullen dawning.
..
Posted this one in new poems under the non erotic catagory. Hurry home soon. I hope you will forgive the lack of a period in the first stanza. I'll leave an extra one here..

__________________"True glory consists in doing what deserves to be written; in writing what deserves to be read."- Pliny the Elder"Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world."- The Budda"I'll never be a poet"- The Harry"You are not the whim of a careless creator, experimenting in the laboratory of life... you were made with a purpose"."-Og Mandino
well buttered

Wry grin, huffing resignation,
chase continues no hesitation.
Except:
for a drink or two, a cheery fire
ere I retire to dream of you.

Predawn:
Cold, dark, shivering
Pack camp and move quickly.
Fair game sleeps in the sullen dawning.
..
Posted this one in new poems under the non erotic catagory. Hurry home soon. I hope you will forgive the lack of a period in the first stanza. I'll leave an extra one here..

Hi Harry - rare break in internet censorship here for a day or so. I doubt if I will have access beyond today. But I'll be baaaaack around April 4, and looking forward to that.

__________________“I am at the moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip.”
― John Kennedy Toole, A Confederacy of Dunces

I bought that book,
the one that comprises your signature,
Hanging like a string of red yarn
before my slitted eyes.
Inviting a playful paw after long contemplation
that became silly tomfoolery
pulling the skein from your lap
and entangling me.

__________________"True glory consists in doing what deserves to be written; in writing what deserves to be read."- Pliny the Elder"Words have the power to both destroy and heal. When words are both true and kind, they can change our world."- The Budda"I'll never be a poet"- The Harry"You are not the whim of a careless creator, experimenting in the laboratory of life... you were made with a purpose"."-Og Mandino
well buttered